What do I have a GIVENNESS NOW to?

Joy in the mourning.

“There are reasons to worry.

It would be lovely if some chinook wind could pass over frozen emotions and bring the instant joy of spring.  Unfortunately, whatever “negative” feelings have been long repressed, tabooed, or denied must be brought into awareness before the repertoire of more “positive” feelings becomes available.  

In order to be free, the prison doors must be flung open and the imprisoned feelings invited into the commonwealth of the self.


Since boys are taught not to cry, men must learn to weep.

After a man passes through arid numbness, he comes to a tangled jungle of grief and unnamed sorrow.  The path to a manly heart passes through the valley of tears.


I was thirty-three years old when I shed my first manly tears.  

On the day my father died, the dam burst and I lost control of myself.  From the first awful phone call, until after the funeral, I was awash in grief.  It was the first time my wife had seen me cry.  I soon regained the semblance of control, and, when I was in danger of weeping, left the house and went on long walks.  


Four years later, I was telling a therapy group about longing for my father to return from the long trips when I was a boy when, without warning, I erupted in an orgasm of grief.  Wave upon wave of sobs followed, gathering up all of the pain of my life into a crescendo.  I cried for the boy who missed his father’s arms, the young professor who already felt old and burdened, and for the man who one day would die and never know why.  

When I finally stopped crying, I felt empty and embarrassed.  

What would “they” think of me?  Certainly they would not respect me any longer since I lost my cool.  


With some trepidation, I raised my head and began to look at the room full of people.  To my surprise I found that many had tears in their eyes and they looked at me with unbelievable, but undeniable, tenderness and compassion.

More surprising yet, I felt as if I had been purged of some poison.  My hard armor of tense muscles softened, I breathed easy and warm springs seemed to be bubbling up from my loins.


Men have much to mourn before they can be reborn.


To begin with, there is the simple sadness that accompanies the awareness of the frailty and fleeting beauty of all passing life.  We all carry eternity in our hearts and yet our tenure in time is brief and, finally, tragic.  Death interrupts the happiest of lives before all of its promises fulfilled.  

The Greeks knew what we have conspired to smother with easy smiles and false optimism - paradoxically, a tragic sense of life yields more joy than warm fuzzies.”  Sam Keen, Fire in the Belly

If I am to ask, “What is my heart’s capacity for joy?”, then I must answer, “What was my heart’s capacity for sorrow?”  If I am to ask, “Will I ever feel great joy?”, then I must answer, “Have I ever felt great sorrow?”  


Can we ever experience the depths of joy…without ever having experienced the depths of sorrow…and the depths of someone else’s sorrow?







Mourning?




…much.  




…must.  






More joy than warm fuzzies.


I have a GIVENNESS NOW to joy in the mourning.